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Cha Young has nowhere to go when she’s done dismantling Babel and delivering the pain Jang Han Seok and his lackeys had coming to him.

Pain, not justice. Because in the end, while she knew what her father would have wanted her to do, she wanted to rip into his body and leave him screaming.

But when it’s all done, she’s standing in the Jipuragi office, alone. Mr Nam taking a well-earned weekend break, the tenants relieved in their own little stores and homes.

And her, Cha Young, orphaned and deflated.

This office was never hers. Yes, she’s found her father’s will and knows he left it for her. Has seen the letter he’d penned, telling her of his hopes and dreams for what she can do for this world and the people who control it.

But.

She sits down slowly at the table, clean for the first time in months of papers and scribbles, staring at the chair and desk she still considers to be abeoji’s.

Cha Young is exhausted.

From the moment she’d walked up to her murdered father’s body till the time she’d laughed in Choi Myung Hee’s face after robbing her of everything she held dear—her precious boss, her social standing, her money—she’d been living as a shell, all her energy poured into revenge.

And now she’s so very aware of how tired she is.

She can't just go back to her life before this. Forget a job at another firm, even just running this one and trying to help people feels wrong.

It's not that she doesn't want to be the person her father so passionately, apparently, believed her to be. (“Old man,” she says derisively later at his gravestone, “why couldn't you have had the balls to say all that to my face?”)

Staying here and running Jipuragi just doesn't feel like enough.

Her phone beeps and she looks at it distractedly.

Confirmation from Seo Miri that all of Han Seok and Myung Hee’s liquid money has been safely stored in Cha Young's newly minted offshore accounts. With Miri's cut, of course. And Han Seo’s.

With this kind of money, Cha Young can do anything she wants.

She's virtually untouchable by anyone from now on.

What now, boss?

Cha Young stares at the text, thinking of Mr Tak crowning her with that title and the rest of her motley crew quickly adopting it. A group of talented, loving thugs and criminals and former athletes with bones to pick with the world. She helped them too.

So, why does she feel like she’s the only one who’s lost something?

Maybe she just needs some time. Time away, time to breathe, time to actually grieve a father she loved and hated in equal measure.

-

For as long as Vincenzo can remember, the floor beneath his penthouse apartment in the Brera district has been silent.

As far as he knew, from back when he'd first bought this place and moved in, an old woman was living out her retirement, having bought and renovated two apartments into one large space for herself.

He's surprised, then, when he steps out of his car one evening in August, Luca holding the door open, to see the unmistakable signs of boxes and movers milling around the door.

Marked with labels bearing the floor number just under his own.

“New neighbours for you,” Luca comments, as they wait outside the private lift that goes directly to Vincenzo’s door. “It’s a pity. Old Mrs Bernardi was nice.”

“Find out who they are, will you?” He murmurs, eyeing the boxes. “I wouldn’t put it past a Luciano or one of those fucking Gambinos to try something harebrained like buy up space right under mine.”

Luca nods his assent. The lift doors slide open and they walk in, just as they hear a mover greet someone and announce that they’d gotten all the boxes out of the truck.

-

It turns out, the cops remember how irritating she’d been, and there’s an investigation into Cha Young. Obviously Miri makes sure there’s no trace of wrongdoing attached to her name, but they eventually deem it a good idea for her to disappear for a while.

Lay low.

So, Cha Young starts looking for places to live.

She could go to the US. Her English isn’t bad.

She could go to Europe. She’d learned Italian because of a prestigious internship she’d picked up during her time at SNU Law. Her Italian is about as good as her English. Probably worse now that she’s not practised it.

That’s when she remembers Kim Ara, the snooty heiress with the Italian husband who Cha Young had helped out of a drunken driving situation the year before. So, she reaches out to her and is delighted to find out that the husband’s got an empty apartment left to him by a dead great aunt in the heart of Milan.

At least she’ll be able to go shopping with all this Babel money.

-

He ends up finding out who the new neighbour is before his men can report back, because the next night Vincenzo’s on his way out with a good bottle of wine and plans for a pleasant evening with Isabella Moretti. They have a very good understanding of what they want from each other, and it suits him.

He heads to where his MC20 is parked, only to be distracted at the sight of a sleek, new Lamborghini pull up just behind it in the yellow lines marked for residents. And then, the driver side door opens to reveal a long heel, followed by a denim-clad leg. And then a vision walks out of the car, whipping long brown hair over her shoulder as she locks the door and turns towards the house. He only belatedly realises he’s in her way, staring.

She stops, her smooth, slightly haughty expression turning into something skittish momentarily, before he sees her get a handle on herself. She nods a little and moves to walk past him, a hand hovering just where her purse is and where, he’s fairly certain, lies pepper spray or some kind of weapon.

“You must be my new neighbour,” he says, in Italian. He doesn’t know where she’s from, but if she’s living here then she must have a grasp on the language. All the expats who move to this neighbourhood do, enjoying their little ability to speak Italian and the opportunity of living in Milan that their companies provide them.

No doubt, this woman falls into the same group. Something particularly well-to-do, like finance or art.

She turns slowly to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

“You live here?” She asks, Italian slow, but technically correct. Her accent is… well, it reminds him of Seoul. And the mother he’s only just made contact with, living a simple life as a seamstress in some run-down commercial plaza.

“Penthouse,” he affirms, pointing upwards. The line of her shoulders loosens a little and she makes a small ‘ah’ sound.

Then, she walks forward and raises her hand. Gold, tasteful ring—not on the ring finger—and the hint of a delicate luxury watch at the sleeve.

“My name is Cha Young Hong.”

Hong. Korean, definitely. He grasps her hand, allowing a small smile to escape him.

And replies in Korean.

“Annyeonghaseyo. Nae ireum-eun Vincenzo Cassano-ibnida.”

-

Once she sees mysterious Mr Cassano, she sees him everywhere.

He’s at the law firm she’s been directed to visit for local legal counsel, walking out of the office of a senior partner.

He’s at the party hosted by the Korean embassy a week later, schmoozing with people she’s guessing have diplomatic passports and power.

They run into each other almost every day, either when she’s back from a run and he’s leaving in another impeccably-made suit, or when they’re both heading out of the building at night.

Her final straw is when she goes on a date with an American expat to a high-end lounge, and sees Mr Cassano seated at the table next to her and her date’s. He’s surrounded by other well-dressed people, clearly celebrating something.

He looks unruffled to see her, like he’s used to his neighbours everywhere. He even raises his glass to her, a fact her date doesn’t miss.

“I thought you’re new here?” Robbie, as he’d introduced himself, asks her, a hint of annoyance shining through his words. She turns back at him in time to see the almost insecure look he shoots at Vincenzo.

Ugh, he’s that type of man, then.

Oh well. It’s not like she’d downloaded Tinder for the prospect of love or anything. She’d just been bored and wanted to scratch an itch.

“Sure,” she says blithely, refusing to provide the explanation her date’s ego needs.

She wants to sleep with him, but far be it from her to tell the man anything. If he wants to ruin this date with his self-esteem issues, he’s welcome to.

Robbie’s face clears. “Oh, are you from the same place? I see.”

Cha Young raises her eyebrow. “What do you mean?” She knows exactly what he means.

He nods, relaxing and ordering himself a whiskey and her, a wine. Without asking.

Strike two and three.

“Don’t worry, I get it. Community and all that,” he says affably, and she fantasises stabbing his throat with the heel of her Manolo Blahniks. But they’re new. It would be a shame.

“So we look alike and must be from the same place, is that what you mean?”

The date does not go well. At least he pays before leaving and she relaxes back into her seat, rolling her eyes. It took all of twenty minutes for it to sink in that she wasn’t, in fact, going to go home with him.

She ignores the middling wine he’d ordered for her and requests for a cocktail instead, deciding to enjoy the city view and a decent drink before making her way home.

“Bad night?”

Balefully, Cha Young turns away from the pretty city lights to the almost-smug man sliding into the newly vacated seat opposite her.

“It would have been better, had certain strangers not felt the need to butt in,” she replies acerbically, matching the Korean he seems to like using with her. He sounds, admittedly, lovely when speaking it. A little clumsy in spaces, but his rich voice and measured way of speaking elevate the sound.

He grins cockily as he takes a sip from his glass, choosing not to point out that she’s being unfair. A silent greeting hadn’t been ‘butting in’ by any means, after all.

“Any man whose ego is that easy to injure, does not make a good partner, Miss Hong.”

“Oh really?” She challenges, as her new drink is set down in front of her. She takes a sip—finally, a good drink—and leans forward. “What should I be looking for, then?”

It is absolutely an invitation to engage, if he chooses to pick up on it.

At least she knows where this man lives. If he ends up being too creepy, she can just head down a flight of stairs to her own home.

His eyes glint and he leans forward too. From over his shoulder, she can see curious looks being tossed their way by the group he’s left behind. Some openly staring at her. Others whispering to each other.

“Confidence and a secure ego,” he supplies, which is… neither clear engagement nor denial of her invitation.

“And where do I find that?” She presses, readjusting herself to lean backwards, crossing one leg over the other so one foot accidentally grazes his.

Before he can reply, a large figure approaches them—or rather, the table to her right—and Vincenzo’s expression changes from definitely very interested to something formal and attentive. She turns to appraise the figure: an old, portly man with a shock of white hair. Just as well dressed as the others. An air of power and authority like Vincenzo.

And he looks right at her, curiously, before obviously deciding to dismiss her and breaking into a large smile aimed at Vincenzo, who has stood up.

“Son!” He roars, and Vincenzo sends her an apologetic look before rejoining the celebration.

-

“Who was the girl?” Fabio asks, as they wait for his driver to bring Fabio’s car around.

Vincenzo stifles a groan. He’s not eighteen anymore, and yet, his adopted father sometimes knows how to make him feel it.

“That woman,” he says pointedly, which earns him an eyeroll, “is my neighbour. She just happened to be one table over and I was entertaining her for a few moments.”

He tries not to think of the way the tip of her shoe had pressed against his knee.

Luca snorts from behind him. “Yes, it was just neighbourly behaviour to swoop in after her shitty date had barely left the table…” he trails off when Vincenzo shoots him a dirty look.

Fabio’s laugh, as ever, is loud and booming. Jolly when his job and station demands everything but.

“Sounds like a target acquired.”

Which is absolutely not the thing. It’s not, Vincenzo insists with himself. He’s not targeting her or anything. Sure, they were flirting, and she is a stunning woman. But he’s not some… creepy lothario, out to ‘get’ her.

He’s not Paolo, for Christ’s sake.

Or, god forbid, their other brother Stefano. Who, last Vincenzo checked, lives in a large dwelling in New Orleans with three lovers. One of his ex-students, one male model, and one artist, of all people.

Does Vincenzo try and time his departure for the gym the next morning to when he’s noticed she usually sets out for a run, since it’s a Saturday and he has no meetings or stray soldatti to wrangle?

Maybe.

“Ah, Mr Popular,” she greets, walking out of the elevator just as he leaves his. She’s wearing a bright pink set today, clutching what looks like a yoga mat. No run, then.

“I’m sorry for leaving you abruptly last night,” he says, because it had been rude.

She waves her hand dismissively. “I understand. You weren’t there to flirt with me all night anyway.”

He can’t stop the blush that he knows hits his cheeks, because he absolutely wasn’t expecting the blunt acknowledgement of what they’d been doing.

She laughs, a loud cackle that should be ungainly but makes the tips of his own lips twitch without express approval. Then she turns to him, one finger pointing in his face.

Why is it all so endearing?

“Do you go to the Manzoni Fitness Club, by any chance?” He blinks, then the yoga mat and her question align and he nods, indicating where they should go.

“You’ve signed up for one of their classes, I take it?” It’s a two minute-walk away from their building. He tries to ignore the sudden cheer he feels at this extra two minutes with her.

“I miss aerobics,” she offers, as they set off. “I used to do aerial yoga quite regularly,” she adds, then looks up at him, crafty smile overtaking her face. “I’m quite good.”

He has to try very hard not to take the bait.

-

Cha Young’s not entirely sure why she hasn’t just slept with Vincenzo yet.

It might be because they’ve become friends.

He’s not the kind to welcome someone into his own space and life, clearly. He’s almost always busy, leaving and returning at all hours—no, she is not keeping an eye out for him from her window—with a nice leather briefcase and a cute suited chauffeur. But he’s also quiet, private, and even during their daily walks to the gym, seems to prefer listening to her talk rather than volunteering much information about himself.

At least he’s told her the basics.

He’s a lawyer. Works for this family’s firm. Adopted. Korean.

Yes, he’s been to Seoul recently. No, he won’t divulge the information about his birth mother. Yes, he does in fact like Korean food. No, he doesn’t listen to k-pop.

When she reveals that she's a lawyer too, he starts directing questions to the line of work she’s been involved in, asking about the way things function in Korea, offering nothing in return.

Cagey.

So, after a month of this, she feels comfortable enough to bulldoze her way into his apartment one evening, when she’s sure he’s home and not set out again with a bottle of wine to whichever woman (or man, she supposes) he clearly has on speed dial.

Throwing on her favourite slippers, she pads downstairs, using the intercom at the lobby to buzz him.

“Wine, byeonhosanim?”

His private lift opens directly into a large, tastefully decorated living room, at the centre of which he stands, looking mildly surprised. She’s unsure of whether it’s at her bunny slippers or her presence entirely.

“Where’s the wine?” He asks, amused, looking very pretty with his hair free of its usual severe, gelled-style (that admittedly highlights high cheekbones in an enviable way), curling softly over his forehead.

“Good point,” she says brightly, walking in and sinking into a sofa. Fuck, it’s comfortable. “Aren’t you going to pour us some?”

He blinks at her, then huffs a small laugh, turning to the bar in the corner of the room and returning soon enough with a healthy measure of red wine for them both. She accepts it and he moves on to a different corner, from where music starts to play. It’s good enough to fill the space, not loud enough to ruin conversation.

She raises her glass as he sits down too, on the same sofa but a polite distance away. “To neighbours,” she says.

His eyes dance, expressive face betraying just how charmed he is by her bullishness and total avoidance of propriety.

“To neighbours.”

They do not sleep together.

-

Vincenzo begins taking irrepressible Miss Hong to events with him.

At least, the more innocuous ones where there’s no chance of mafiosi laying their eyes on her. He doesn’t need an innocent person yanked into his dangerous life.

But she’s fun; whispering horrible things in his ear when they suffer through society-speak and shallow guests, making snide remarks about fashion sense and political duplicity.

He’s not a complete moron, though (not yet, of course) and he can see where this is going. At some point, he's going to want to take her to bed. Or take her any number of places, should she be willing. 

The thing is, it wouldn’t be beyond one of the other families to install someone who can get close to him. Or Interpol, for that matter. So, he tasks Luca with a deep-dive into her background, putting him in touch with Cho Yeong Un at the NIS in Korea.

What returns is a heavy dossier he takes great interest in reading for an afternoon, ignoring the work he’s supposed to be doing (fixing another one of Paolo’s idiotic adventures for the family).

Her record fills in gaps he’d already identified, barring one: what the hell she’s doing here, in Milan, living what seems to be a jobless, carefree lifestyle.

Whenever he’s enquired, she’s always made a flippant remark about finding herself a la Hollywood movies, or looking for a hot European fling.

The real reason has something to do with her father’s recent death, he supposes. Her firm seems to be running still, from afar. She’s not, apparently, had any court dates, but seems to have engaged junior lawyers who do in-person work for her. Her firm’s name appears in the Korean papers now and again, relating usually to some scam or corporate fuckery uncovered.

But here she is, living on the floor underneath his penthouse, wearing bunny slippers and flirting outrageously with him at every chance she gets.

He’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t intriguing the hell out of him, and making her that much more compelling to be around.

On Christmas Eve, he makes a mistake.

He’d left for a routine meeting. A simple, normal chat with a family... only it turns out that they've decided to turn on his. He and his men manage to get out without losing anybody, and by the time Vincenzo returns home, he’s nursing fury along with a painful stab wound across his torso.

These fucking hurt. The knife had been dull, because of course the Morettis couldn’t even be bothered to try and murder him with enough planning. Now he’s got a jagged, shallow line that will heal pretty quickly but sting like a bitch and probably leave another scar.

It’s a pain, in both senses of the word.

He’s so used to his unnamed situation—is this what a friendship is, when the other person isn’t on the Cassano payroll or related to him?—with Cha Young, that he forgets they had plans to welcome Christmas with mulled wine that she’d promised she’d bring, and shitty Christmas movies on his flatscreen.

Forgets that he’d given her the key because he was going to be late and she’d made faces at him when he’d said it.

And so, he enters his home bleeding and irritated, barking orders at a similarly bloody and limping Luca, only to freeze at the entrance when he notices her.

She stares, wide-eyed at the two of them, comically adorable jingly reindeer antlers twinkling from atop her head.

And then, she snaps to movement, running inside to the bathroom where he keeps his first aid kit. (Later, he wonders how she knew where it was, and realises resignedly that of course she was nosy enough to snoop.)

“Are you coming or are you both going to bleed all over the tile out there?” She asks, poking her head out the door, looking irritated. As though he and Luca are the ones acting odd.

They exchange looks, Luca clearly asking for an explanation. Vincenzo shrugs and gestures to the bathroom.

They walk in, and she manhandles them immediately to lean against the wide platform there, pulling at the bloodied tatters of Vincenzo’s shirt.

“This is not the way I imagined I'd be taking your shirt off,” she mutters, reindeer antlers jingling, and he bites back a laugh as he obediently begins to peel off his clothes. He only realises she’s said it in Italian when he hears Luca snort from next to him, lifting himself to sit on the platform and examine his own ankle, having clearly put enough together to guess at their non-relationship. Or whatever it is that they have.

“Are you hurt anywhere but your ankle?” Cha Young asks Luca, sparing him a glance as she wets a towel with water and pushes it into Vincenzo’s hands with the kind of look that could shrivel a lesser man.

“No, Signorina,” Luca says, poking at his ankle. “And this is just a sprain, I should be fine with rest.”

She bites her lip, then nods, a furrow darkening her forehead. Then she looks back at Vincenzo’s chest, gaze medical and sharp. “You on the other hand… I don’t think you need, um.” She pauses, looking frustrated, then sighs impatiently. “Stitches or a doctor,” she finally says, switching to Korean.

He nods. “Cleaning, bandages and a new shirt are all I need. You don’t need to worry.”

She raises her eyebrows coolly. “I never said I was worried,” she sniffs, then turns away. “I’m just concerned you’ve ruined our Christmas plans.”

They patch themselves up in silence.

Until Luca starts to laugh.

Vincenzo balls up his bloody towel and throws it at him.

“Shut up.”

-

They don’t address it.

Cha Young wrestles with herself internally about the ‘it’ in question. Because a part of her just wants to ask him. Just come right out and ask him if he’s in the mafia. And while she’s asking questions, find out why he won’t fuck her.

Which sounds really desperate, but at this point they’re definitely playing a game. Some kind of challenge to see who breaks first: is it her, tired of being so brazen and flirty? Or will it be him, having had enough of just being in her personal space all the time, hand always pressed to her back or her shoulders or her neck or…

Anyway. Just because she’s in Italy doesn’t mean she’s been flirting with a gangster.

What kind of odds are those, anyway? The literal first man she encounters is a member of the mafia?

He only ever mentions ‘the family’. Has only vaguely said terms like ‘philanthropy’ and ‘real estate’ when she’s asked what the Cassano family does.

Not to mention his torso is a playground of extremely enticing muscles and a lattice of silver and pink scars. Some that looked like little round… bullet holes.

Huffing, Cha Young pulls out her phone.

Miri-ya. Is it true that police agencies have criminal databases like they show in dramas?

It takes a few moments for a response to come back, during which Cha Young chews nervously at her thumbnail.

Then,

Yes. Which one do you care about?

I’m not sure. All? International ones, I guess.

Sure. It’s not easy, but doable. Who are you looking for?

I’ll send you details. How long will it take you?

A few days, unnie. But I got this.

-

“Boss,” Luca says, stopping Vincenzo just as he’s about to climb out of his car. It’s been an exhausting day, at the end of an exhausting week. They’ve spent these days after Christmas rounding up the Morettis, exacting swift vengeance for not only trying to murder him, but their overall betrayal.

It’s been bloody and Vincenzo wants to sleep for at least a solid five hours.

“I dug a little deeper into her, now that I know… you know, how serious you are about her.”

Who said I’m serious about her? He thinks automatically, but doesn’t say that out-loud. Luca knows him well enough to know he’d have never let a woman have free rein of his apartment if… he doesn’t even fucking know what the fuck she is to him, though.

They haven’t even kissed. And he wants to, damn it, because her lips are always pink and look like they’d fit perfectly with his. Or between his teeth. Or engaged in other activities.

“What did you find?” He asks, pushing away the mental image of her biting her lips while he moves down her body.

Vincenzo’s phone pings signalling a received email. Luca looks up from his phone.

“The quick summary is that there were bank accounts I managed to trace in the Cayman Islands, Belize and Singapore. All of them set up within a few days of each other, and that was shortly after a corporate chairman was reported missing in South Korea. The same man was connected to an accusation of one lawyer, Hong Yu Chan, being corrupt…”

‘The short answer’ ends up going on for a bit, but Vincenzo finally hears enough to nod.

“This is good work, Luca. Thank you,” he says, frowning down at the document now open on his phone.

They sit in silence for a moment, then Luca fidgets and Vincenzo looks up, catching his eye in the rearview mirror.

"What is it?"

“...trust you to find yourself a criminal girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he says automatically, though his mind is firmly screaming that it would very much like for that statement to be untrue.

-

They still go to the gym together. They just don’t… talk about it.

The thing is, she doesn’t know if he wants to. What if he doesn’t want it known that he’s a high-ranking member of the mafia (and, according to Miri’s Interpol files, the next-in-line of a whole crime family) and tries to keep her quiet, like in the movies?

Also, what does it say about her that, now that she knows this about him, he’s even sexier?

It’s not that she’s romanticising his job. It’s just… she wants to listen to the story of how he got into all this. And what kind of crime he’s had a hand in.

And then she wants to compliment him.

Because yes, she’s always known Vincenzo’s smart. He’s intelligent and well-read and worldly and cultured.

But now she thinks he might be cunning. He might be experienced in ways that she’s interested in learning about, if only because a darker side of her, that found herself holding the power to be judge, jury and executioner, enjoys.

In short, Cha Young thinks she’s a bit fucked in the head.

Very, very late on New Year’s Eve, there’s a knock on her door.

They don’t have plans. So, she’s not really expecting him when she opens the door to see him, dressed in all black and holding two wine glasses and a bottle.

“I thought you had a family party,” she says, standing in her doorway, watching as he leans nonchalantly against the frame. She can’t smell alcohol on him. But his eyes have that shine of someone who’s had a few to drink. She doesn't feel unsafe, though. He's still him.

“I decided I wanted to split my evening,” he says easily, then straightens up and takes a step forward, something dark in his eyes. “If you’d like,” he adds courteously, which pisses her off because how dare he act so polite when all she wants to do is shove him against a wall?

“Come in,” she says, instead of… any of that, and wanders in, feeling his eyes on her.

She’s not dressed for company. She’s just got a sweater and leggings on. Her hair is free and probably a bit tangled. But when she turns to see if he’s following her, and he is, his eyes are raking over her like she’s the best thing he’s seen.

To be fair to him, she is gorgeous and he is mortal, criminal or not.

The living and dining areas are dark. There’s only one lamp on from where she’d been curled up, reading.

“How’s the…” she gestures vaguely at his chest, where she knows a long, shallow (and honestly, scary) gash had been.

“It’ll heal quickly,” he assures her with a smile, pouring wine into the glasses and then offering her one. Their fingers brush against each other and she tries not to be embarrassing about it.

“You seem so blase,” she comments, keeping her eyes on him.

Someone has to break first.

He shrugs, eyes trained on her as he lifts his glass to his lips and takes a sip. “I’m clumsy.” Then he smiles, like he's made a great joke that she's in on.

Cha Young hmms, walking slowly up to him. “You know,” she says conversationally, deciding to take a calculated risk. “My intern turned out to be a diabolical maniac who was running a conglomerate engaged in fraud—among other crimes like murder and bribery—for years. And when I found out, I was furious.”

He listens to her carefully, eyebrows only slightly furrowed. Which proves that he knows more about her than she let on.

Thank god. Otherwise this would have been really awkward.

“That is to say,” she continues deliberately, coming to a rest only a few steps away from him, both next to the heavy wooden dining table in her apartment, “I’ve since developed a problem with people lying to me.”

He nods slowly, making an exaggerated thinking face, then sets his glass down, one hand resting in his pocket while the other pulls out a gold lighter and fiddles with it.

“In that case, byeonhosanim…”

She waits.

“I’m not clumsy,” he says, looking back up at her.

They stare at each other, her enjoying the way the light plays across his face, throwing his features into relief.

Break first, Vincenzo, she thinks.

“You never told me how you came to own this apartment, byeonhosanim,” he says instead, looking away, politely looking around the place.

She narrows her eyes, then laughs exaggeratedly. “Own it? Don’t be silly. An old client has leased it to me.” She walks up to him and pokes him—hard—in the chest. “Not all of us are as rich as you and your old family.”

His eyes look like they’re glittering in this light. One hand grabs her pointer before she can drop it, holding it close to him, just hovering over his heart.

“And what do you know of my family?” He asks quietly.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears fireworks.

Midnight.

Oh fuck it. Fuck this. Fine. She loses. It’s a new year, isn’t it? Time for a new beginning.

Cha Young surges up, slipping her hand around his collar and yanking him down ferociously to her lips. He stays frozen there for a second, and all she can feel is the softness of his lips against hers.

Then, he moves.

His arms wrap urgently around her waist, pressing her to him, his lips slotting aggressively over hers, claiming them for himself.

He moves, taking her with him, pulling her up and depositing her on the table so he can push her knees apart and step in between, impossibly close and chasing her lips to be closer still.

He moves, when she shoves him backwards, gasping for breath, and hops off the table to head to her bedroom.

Follows.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” He mutters, nipping kisses down her neck, a journey down her body.

“Just as long as I have, mafia byeonhosanim,” she gasps, when she’s lying boneless, sweat slicked and panting on her mattress, Vincenzo looking up at her from between her thighs. Her words were intended to carry a bite to them, but they instead sound teasing.

He grins, making his way up, slipping a hand into her hair and holding her as he positions himself above her.

“Do you know what Luca referred to you as, the other day?”

She frowns, unwilling to talk about Luca, of all people, when he’s maddeningly notched just short of where she desperately wants him.

“My criminal girlfriend,” he says, leaning down to kiss her hungrily. She bites him playfully, realising what he’s trying to do, the clarity he's seeking before going any further.

“I like that,” she says, breathlessly, slipping a hand to his ass to pull him down, closer.

When he finally presses into her, their twin moans loud and indecent and sounding like shared victory, she thinks she hears him gasp one last thing.

“I like you.”